


Hundreds of tiny threads

by SecondStarOnTheLeft



Series: So tell your violent and tame [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Matriarchy, F/M, Sibling Bonding, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 15:57:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17831636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/pseuds/SecondStarOnTheLeft
Summary: Twenty years of marriage and ten years of rule, and Visenya has resigned herself to have Aegon's trust and his friendship, but never his regard.It seems she was wrong to doubt that. There are other surprises ahead of her, too.





	Hundreds of tiny threads

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PanBoleyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PanBoleyn/gifts), [artemisandapolla9328](https://archiveofourown.org/users/artemisandapolla9328/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Queenmaker, Kingbreaker](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3472013) by [SecondStarOnTheLeft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/pseuds/SecondStarOnTheLeft). 



> Title from a quote by Simone Signoret. Series title from _Isombard_ by Declan McKenna.
> 
> I tried to tag this as "Alternate Universe - 100% Maternal Survival Rate," which I think should be taken as a general assumption for all my work going forward.

“You will not visit me, wife?”

Aegon’s eyes seem black in the slanting starlight that cuts so delicately through her windows, his hair wintery white. They are having a winter now, and letters from witty, sour Sansa Stark say that the whole of the North is twenty foot deep in snow.

Queensport has seen only two feet, if that, but the chill puts a beautiful flush along Aegon’s sharp cheekbones, and Visenya finds it most becoming.

“I see that you have taken it upon yourself to visit me, husband,” she says, hoping that her surprise is hidden. She and Aegon have been wed so many years now, but Visenya knows he has never loved her as she does him. She is a stern woman - some even go so far as to call her cold, or harsh - and not sweet, and the long-enduring passion he bore for Rhaenys proved to Visenya that it was sweetness he prized, gentleness he desired.

At least Rhaenys convinced him out of that with a sharp slap and a third beautiful child for her quiet, clever husband. Visenya is ashamed now of her reasoning in matching Rhaenys with old Meria’s son, but Nymor’s steadiness had brought an unexpected maturity and sense out in Visenya’s flighty little sister. The court she created at Sunspear had been the envy of the realm, and she had worked the same magic when Visenya invited her to Queensport after she recovered from birthing Leonor - Queensport drew the best minds from across the realm, and some from the Free Cities as well. That was all thanks to Rhaenys and her canny use of very little coin to very great advantage.

But enough of Rhaenys - Visenya should be thinking of Aegon. 

They have never shared a bed as regularly as other couples. Perhaps it is irresponsible of her, given their position, but Visenya has never been able to stomach any hint of reluctance in Aegon, and he tried less to hide that distaste after Maegor was born. Had he been more enthusiastic, Visenya would have shared his bed every night, but neither her pride nor her sense of right could suffer Aegon’s half-hearted kisses, nor the way he never, ever kissed her when he was inside her.

“Why are you here, Aegon?” she asks, turning back to her mirror. There are hints on her face of the crown that weighs on her brow every day, lines that mark her rare smile bracketing her mouth and tracing out from her eyes, but she is still an attractive woman. Her eyes are still clear, her skin still bright, and she still walks tall and straight.

But such things have never seemed to matter to her husband. Such things have never been enough for him.

“I am your husband, you my wife,” he says, stepping forward into the pool of golden-red light thrown off by her lanterns and the dimming fire. “Would you rather I go?”

It is a lance in the side, it truly is. Is this not precisely what she always wished for? That Aegon might love her, that he might desire her as she always has him? There have been few things in her life that she has wanted more than Aegon’s regard, his hunger, and now that she seems to have it… 

She doesn’t trust it.

“Why now?” she asks. “What has brought you here, Aegon? I know it is not frustrated lust - Rhaenys and I keep a thorough track of anyone who shares your bed, for fear of some byblow trying to take Aemma and Maegor’s place. You’ve never sought out my rooms before, so I ask. Why now?”

He is all the red and midnight of their banner now, firelight lining half his handsome face in scarlet and blush and casting the rest in perfect darkness. He is unreadable until he comes fully into the circle of her lantern, and then he is annoyed.

“You are my wife,” he says. “I am your husband. Is that not reason enough?”

Visenya rises to meet him, looking down into his eyes - so much paler than her own, but dark now with something she has only seen so very rarely. 

Lust suits him. She might have known that, had she seen it more often. 

He lifts his hand to her face, just the barest press of his fingertips to the jut of her jawbone. It’s the most tender touch he has ever bestowed on her, and she leans into it despite knowing she should not. Not until she understands what drove him to come here. 

“I have been a poor husband,” he says. “I know that. But I should be better. I  _ want  _ to be better. So I am here.”

“You look at me,” she says, “you have  _ always _ looked at me, and used my hair and my eyes to create- to see Rhaenys. Has that changed? I cannot imagine that it has.”

“I have not- that is not-”

He sighs, ducks his head, and then braces himself before looking up to meet her eyes. 

“I have overcome my foolishness,” he says. “Please, Vis. Let me be better. It has taken me so long to realise I have been failing you - let me set this right. Let me be the man our mother would have expected.”

He kisses her then, gentle and lingering. Aegon has been Visenya’s husband since she was eighteen, he a year younger. They are nearer forty than thirty now, and in all that time, he has never kissed her this way before, not in all their long years of marriage. 

 

* * *

“I’m worried for you,” Rhaenys says frankly. “You’re very old to be having a child, Visenya.”

“I’ve always wondered at how readily your tact disappears when it’s just family,” Orys says, shoving at Rhaenys’ shoulder as he passes. “I’m glad for you, Vis - this is good for the realm.”

He pulls her close, kissing her temple and squeezing her gently, and she settles into his embrace for a moment. Ever has Orys been her fiercest champion, her most fearless defender, and while his support, his genuine pleasure at this news for her sake, was never in question, it is still nice to hear it.

Aegon is standing just behind her, sharing a murmured conversation with Argella, who is herself heavy with child - she escapes Rhaenys’ censure by being so many years younger than Visenya, of course, and Argella has been wed only half as long as Visenya herself but has five strong children already. Their eldest, fine young Davos, is one of Visenya’s pages. Argella has sent for a dressmaker to come from Storm’s End, a strange old woman whose discretion she swears by, and Rhaenys has sent for her Dornish midwives.

Rhaenys, after all, is only two years Visenya’s junior, and she birthed her fourth child only a year ago.

“Have you told the children yet?” Argella asks, pushing Aegon aside to take Visenya by the arm. “Your children, I mean - you could present a new cousin to my fools and they might not notice.”

“I’ve told Leonor,” Rhaenys says, pressing Visenya’s hand to calm her. “She’s Nymor’s daughter in every way, though - torture couldn’t pry a secret from that child.”

Leonor is Rhaenys’ favourite child, and Visenya’s favourite of Rhaenys’ children. She’s the very image of her grandmother, a little stocky thing with a round, interesting face and eyes like golden coins under her tangle of bright silver hair. She’s as clever as her mother, too, the same knack for sideways thinking that Visenya used be jealous of, when she could only see in straight lines, but yes, she has Nymor’s practical good sense and his smiling talent for secrets, even at just seven years old. 

“Maegor doesn’t know yet,” Aegon says, his hand setting to the curve of Visenya’s hip in the sort of thoughtlessly easy way she has always craved. “We thought it best to be better prepared before telling him.”

“And we are your preparations? Things must be dire indeed, Your Highness.”

Argella’s sharp tongue is one of the things Visenya likes best about her, but it has always made Aegon frown - he thinks she ought to be more respectful toward her rulers, who saved her from the disrespect and violence of her own men. 

“Aemma and Maegor must be told,” Rhaenys says, still pressing Visenya’s hand. “But I cannot imagine that they will react well.”

 

* * *

Surprising everyone, Maegar takes the news better than Aemma.

Maegor, when Aegon and Visenya tell him over dinner, is remarkably composed. He is a serious boy at the best of times, unusually so for a boy of only nine years, and this new revelation puts a crease between his straight brows.

“Will it be a brother or a sister?” he asks, and nothing else. Aegon hides a smile behind his hand, but Visenya sees no reason to do so - Maegor reacts badly to laughter, but well to warmth.

“We do not know yet, sweetling,” she says, smoothing her hand over his short hair. “But we are hoping for a girl.”

“But you have no need of an heir,” he says, that crease cutting deeper. “You have Aemma, and Leonor after her, and the new baby after.”

“Even with Aemma and Leonor and Myriah, it is no bad thing for your father and I to have a daughter of our own,” Visenya says. “Aemma and you will still have something to call your own even if the babe is a girl, and if the babe is a boy, well - you will have the whole realm.”

“When will you know?”

“Not until the babe is born, lad,” Aegon says. “And we can make all our decisions then. You’ll still wed Aemma either way, if that’s your concern.”

Maegor’s pale face flushes pink, and this time Visenya  _ does  _ hide her smile. He is still only a boy, and it would not do to embarrass him any more over his admiration for Aemma.

“I think I’ll like being a brother,” he says, once his blush is faded. “I think I will be a good brother, just like you are, my lord.”

Now it is Aegon’s turn to blush, and Visenya pretends not to notice the shame in his gaze when he turns it on her.

 

* * *

Aemma…

Aemma is smart and bright, but hard, somehow. Visenya sees more of herself in her niece that she might like, but tempered with a summer-berry sweetness that comes from some unknown source. Perhaps the girl has something of the Velaryons in her, perhaps it is something of the Targaryens that has been forgotten a little, but she is like a dainty blade slipped between the ribs by a friend.

Visenya does not like her eldest niece, her anointed heir, but she knows the girl. Ten years old and already Aemma is becoming as predictably rigid in some respects as Maegor has been since birth. 

“You are too old to have more children, aunt,” she says bluntly. “And I am your heir. It is unnecessary that you have more children.”

“And yet here I am,” Visenya says, smoothing her gown down over the now-showing swell of her belly. Aegon’s hand is heavy on her shoulder, Rhaenys warm against her other arm. “Too old, perhaps. But with child nonetheless. A child who will be heir, if it is a girl.”

“Think carefully before you speak, my sweet,” Rhaenys says, featherlight but laden with warning. “I should be  _ very  _ particular with my words after that outburst, little one.”

“You told me just last month that I was too old for this,” Visenya says, smiling to Rhaenys before turning a frown back to Aemma. “But you, niece, you may not speak so abruptly to me. You will remember that I am your Queen, and then you will speak again.”

Aemma’s scowl is the stuff of legends, and she reaches new depths of churlishness with this one.

“You will remain Princess of Dragonstone if the child is a boy,” Aegon says, “but if it is a girl, you will become her fiercest supporter. Is that understood, niece?”

Aemma is so much like Visenya that, when she was very small, Visenya had looked at her and ignored the Martell in her. She had looked at her niece and seen her husband’s child, but she sees Meria’s thoughtfulness now, in the way Aemma is rolling something over in her mind. 

Oh, she is Nymor Martell’s daughter. Unfortunately, she does not take after her father.

“I’m sure I will,” she says at least. “Yes, I can be fierce. I am sure of it.”

 

* * *

Visenya is in the saddle when the birthing pains hit her. 

The first contraction is so sudden and so fierce that she screams, echoed by Vhagar’s roars - later, Aegon will say that all of Queensport rang with their howls, and the pain is so consuming that she could almost believe him.

Mercifully, Rhaenys and Meraxes are with them in the skies, and somehow her sister herds her to the ground in safety. Aegon is waiting for them in the dragonpit, sitting on horseback, and he hauls her from where Rhaenys is helping her hobble across the cobbles into the saddle as though she weighs nothing at all. She shouts her way through the city from Aenar’s Hill to Daenys’,  and Aegon is laughing as he hands her down to her waiting midwives. 

“How did you know to come?” she asks, keeping tight hold of Aegon’s tunic and dragging him down out of the saddle with her. 

“The screaming was a fair clue,” he teases, staggering upright with Mistress Burga’s help. “Go on, birth our girl and shout at me after - I’ll be waiting!”

Rhaenys stumbles into the room some time later - time having gone strangely liquid, Visenya has no idea when - with her hair still scraped away from her lovely face in a mess of windblown knots.

“Oh good,” she says, all smiles as if to mask her concern. “I haven’t missed the interesting bit.”

No one falsifies a smile so well as Rhaenys, but Visenya has seen the blood on the towels the midwives have removed from her bed, and she knows that this pain is far, far worse than it was with Maegor.

“Daena,” she croaks, and there is Daena Velaryon, still looking mostly a pirate in her long boots with the heavy turn-downs on the thighs and her billowing sleeves. Daena has been Visenya’s closest, dearest friend since girlhood, the person she trusts as well as Aegon trusts Orys, and that is why Daena is here in the birthing chamber with her, Daena and Rhaenys and Argella and Agnes Tully and Ceressa Darklyn and Olwyn Celtigar. “Daena, listen well.”

Daena has been her Hand since Meria left this world, and Daena has her will. Daena will see her will done.

“I’m sick of listening to you,” Daena says, smoothing back her hair. “You shut up and give us a princess, you.”

“If I die, Daena,” Visenya says. “If this babe is a girl, and I die, you see her crowned. Aegon and Rhaenys will help, but you are Hand. You see her crowned, Daena.”

“I’ll drag the High Septon from Oldtown myself,” Daena promises. “But you won’t die, you silly bitch, you’re far too fierce to die of anything but murder.”

“She’s right,” Rhaenys insists, kissing Visenya’s cheek and pressing close. “If you’re fool enough to go and die like this, then I’ll reach into the beyond and drag you back by the hair, I swear it now.”

There is pain. There is time. There is encouragement and coaxing and a great deal more cursing than any of the men might expect from a room full of the highest ladies in the realm, and then there is a high, delicate wail.

“She’s beautiful!” Argella says. “Look at that - well done, girl! Well done!”

“She looks like me,” Rhaenys says, not looking away from Visenya even for a moment. “She must be, if you’re already calling her pretty.”

“Fuck yourself,” Visenya manages, deeply in earnest, before turning in search of her daughter. “I want- Rhaenys, bring her-”

Daena is gone already, presumably in search of Aegon, but Rhaenys only has to turn for Ceressa to lay the babe in her arms. From Rhaenys’ arms she’s transferred to Visenya’s chest, and then Agnes folds Visenya’s arms around her daughter.

“Oh,” she sobs, “oh, Rhaenys, look at her. She has Mother’s eyes.”

The babe is squinting up at Visenya between faltering cries, settling against the warmth of Visenya’s skin. Her eyes are the deep, clear purple of a freshly polished amethyst, and she is utterly, completely bald. 

“She really is beautiful,” Rhaenys says, touching the soft bulge atop the babe’s head. “Better looking than Maegor, I think.”

“Don’t be cruel,” Visenya says tiredly, leaning her head against Rhaenys’ shoulder. “Oh, Rhaenys.”

Visenya loves her son. She loves her sister and she loves their brother, she loves her friends, and she truly does love her strange, serious boy, but all of that pales before this.

“Hello, little Daenora,” she says. “Welcome to the world, little love.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired by, but not entirely faithful to, a previous fic I wrote, where part of the Targaryen Conquest involved an abrupt transition to matrilineal inheritance in Westeros. I'm revisiting it as a concept almost entirely because A) I did NOT like F&B, and B) revisiting the same Discourse about F&B has gotten boring, so I decided to write reactionary fic instead.
> 
> Props to Kate for talking this out with me, and to Samie for her unwavering and absolute support!


End file.
